


Breathe Easy

by sahiya



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Allergies, Asthma, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Jonathan Toews vs. Climate Change, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 04:25:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11433117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: It was Jonny’s bad luck that allergy season and playoff season coincided. This year, it was his exceptionally bad luck.





	Breathe Easy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [essouffle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/essouffle/gifts).



> This was written for essouffle for the prompt "allergic reaction" in my [2017 Fuck Trump H/C BINGO Fundraiser](http://sahiya.dreamwidth.org/736914.html). 
> 
> Thanks to saudades for beta reading (twice) and to fuzzyboo for asthma-picking the story for (relative) accuracy.

It was Jonny’s bad luck that allergy season and playoff season coincided. Every year, without fail, Jonny greeted the first round with sneezing, watery eyes, sinus headaches, and congestion. 

The first few years had been torture, but he and the team doctors had more or less worked it out now: a double dose of Zyrtec for the first couple of days, then a normal dose after that unless it got really bad; neti pots whenever necessary; and eye drops for the itching and swelling. He slept sitting up on a pile of pillows and ran an air filter and a humidifier constantly. For six years now, it had worked perfectly. 

But not this year. This year, he had the _worst fucking allergies_ he had ever had. It was bad enough that Jonny found himself getting short of breath during morning skate. It reminded him of that horrible bout of bronchitis he’d had in 2016, when he’d skipped the All Star Game. 

He wasn’t the only one who noticed, apparently. “Babe, you gotta go talk to Terry,” Patrick said, bursting into his hotel room through the adjoining door. “You’re _wheezing_.”

“I’m fine,” Jonny said from the floor, where he was trying to breathe through some basic yoga poses that should not have left him out of breath. 

“Yeah, no,” Patrick said. “I saw you after practice today. It was like that time you got that virus you couldn’t get rid of. And you can’t just sit out a couple games this time, we’ve got the first round starting tomorrow night.”

“It’s just allergies.”

Patrick put his hands on his hips and glared. Jonny pushed himself to his feet just so Patrick wouldn’t literally be looking down his nose at him. “I buy that it’s allergies. But are you really going to bet your playoff performance on the ‘just’ part?”

Jonny had to concede the point. “Fine. I’ll go see Dr. Terry.”

“Thank you,” Patrick said, and reached out to reel Jonny in for a kiss. “We need you healthy. And I hate listening to you wheeze like that.”

“It’s not a lot of fun for me either,” Jonny admitted. “But I don’t know what they can do for me that I’m not already doing.”

True to his word, Jonny went to see Dr. Terry that afternoon at the rink. “The pollen count is absurdly high this year,” Dr. Terry told him. “Winter was unusually warm, I’m sure you remember. There are a lot of people suffering.”

Great. As though Jonny needed another reason to worry about climate change. 

He listened to Jonny’s lungs, frowning, prompting Jonny to take a series of deep and normal breaths. Finally, Dr. Terry sat back and said, “Have you had any shortness of breath during practice?”

“Yeah, a little bit yesterday. I couldn’t catch my breath, got kind of dizzy.”

“Any other times when that’s happened?”

“Um, a couple days ago, I went for a run and got so out of breath I had to walk back. I decided I should probably stick to working out indoors until allergy season is over.” Which would be easy enough to do, since they were now in playoff mode and he hopefully wouldn’t be going on any extra-curricular runs for a while.

Dr. Terry nodded, still frowning. “I’m not surprised. Jon, I’m hearing some crackling in your lungs that sounds like asthma.”

Jonny blinked. “Asthma?”

“It’s not unusual for people with severe allergies to get seasonal asthma.”

“Wait, I don’t have severe allergies,” Jonny objected. 

Dr. Terry raised his eyebrows at him. “Yeah, Jon, you do.”

“No, I don’t. And I don’t have asthma!”

“You haven’t had it before. I think you do this year. It might not be permanent issue,” Dr. Terry added. “Like I said, this year’s allergy season has been particularly bad, and if we go back to normal pollen levels next year, it might not be a problem. I’m going to write you a script for Flovent. You’ll take it twice a day, and it should help ease your symptoms. But I also want you to have a rescue inhaler, just in case.”

“I feel like an inhaler is overkill,” Jonny said, not even really sure why he was objecting. 

“And if you had a medical degree, I might care. Asthma attacks are no joke. High levels of exertion can increase your chances of an attack.”

“But,” Jonny started, and then stopped. 

“No buts, Jon. We need to take this seriously. I’m going to have one of the trainers run out and get these filled. They’ll bring them by your room, and show you how to use them.”

“Okay,” Jonny said, kind of numbly. 

Patrick was lounging on Jonny’s bed in his room when Jonny got back, watching game tape on his laptop. “Hey, what’d Terry say?” Patrick asked, hitting pause. 

For about two seconds, Jonny considered lying to Patrick. But that had never, ever ended well for him, and he knew it wouldn’t this time either. He didn’t even really know where the impulse came from, except that he did not want this to be his new reality at all. 

“I have asthma,” he said, slumping down on the end of the bed.

“What?” Patrick said, sitting up. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. Seasonal, I guess, because of my allergies. It might just be this year, because the pollen count is so high from the warm winter.”

“So, um, what does that mean?”

Jonny shrugged. “One of the trainers went out to get pick up my inhalers.”

“More than one?”

“One that I take twice a day, one that I only take in an emergency.”

“An emergency,” Patrick repeated. He looked like he was imagining what that might look like.

“Yeah.”

“Damn.” Patrick was quiet for a moment, then shook his head. “You never catch a break, do you?”

Jonny groaned. “Apparently not. Apparently, the gluten allergy and the lactose intolerance and the insomnia and the regular, run-of-the-mill allergies aren’t enough, we had to add _fucking asthma_ to the list.”

“That sucks.”

Jonny came up short, surprised. He raised his eyebrows. “What, no jokes about how my body is a delicate flower?”

Patrick smiled at him. “Not this time. This time it just sucks. Unless you’d _like_ me to,” he added. “Would it make you feel better if I compared your body to a fragile coral reef?”

Jonny shook his head. “No. Thanks.” He considered it. “Maybe in a couple of days, just for the sake of normalcy.”

“Deal,” Patrick said, and kissed him. 

One of the trainers, Nikki, showed up with the inhalers a half hour later. She was a lifelong asthma sufferer herself, she told him, and expertly walked him through taking his Flovent for the first time. It might take a few days for him to really start feeling better, she said, and in the meantime he had to keep the rescue inhaler on him. 

“Not in your room,” she said, “not in your bag in your locker. _On you_. If you’re on the ice, one of the trainers should have it. It doesn’t do you any good to have it if it’s not close enough for you to get to in an emergency.”

Jonny frowned at the inhaler in his hand. It’d made him feel weird to take it – kind of shaky and jittery – and it’d left him with a strange taste in his mouth. “I feel like all of this is overkill.”

“It won’t feel like overkill if you can’t breathe,” Nikki said flatly. “Don’t try to play through an asthma attack. If you start to feel short of breath, get off the ice and get to your inhaler.”

“Listen to her, Jonny,” Patrick said, speaking up for the first time since Nikki had walked in. He’d been sitting silently on the end of Jonny’s bed, just watching. “Be reasonable about this, okay?”

Jonny glanced at him. There was a little worry line between his eyebrows, and Jonny felt vaguely guilty for having put it there. “Okay.”

“Good,” Nikki said, with a brief glance in Patrick’s direction. “If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask me or Dr. Terry. I’m happy to talk to you about the medical stuff, but I’ve also dealt with it all personally, at one point or another.”

Jonny nodded. “Thanks. I will.”

He saw her out, then came back to find Patrick reading the little booklet that had come with Jonny’s inhaler. “You okay?” Jonny asked. 

“Think I’m supposed to ask you that,” Patrick said, looking up at him. 

Jonny shrugged. “I’m fine.”

“Every time you say that, I get even more worried,” Patrick said. He hesitated, looking down at the booklet in his hand. “Jon, do you think maybe you should –”

“Don’t say it.”

“It’s the first game of the first round.”

“I’m not sitting it out.”

“We could get it done for you, you know we could. It’s just one game, and if –”

“ _Stop_ it, Patrick!” Jonny snapped. “I’m not sitting out a fucking playoff game because my goddamn body can’t get it the fuck together!”

Patrick’s eyes went wide. Jonny covered his face with his hands. 

“Um,” Patrick said after a few seconds. 

“I’m sorry,” Jonny muttered. 

“No, that’s...I’ve just never heard you talk like that.”

Jonny shook his head. “I’m just frustrated. I don’t know _anyone_ who’s as careful as I am about what they put in their body, and it just – it doesn’t matter. So I’m frustrated, but I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

Patrick nodded, looking down. “I’m just worried about you, Jon.”

“I know,” Jonny said, “but I’ve got my inhalers, and people who are going to watch out for me. I’m going to be fine, really.”

Patrick took a deep breath, looking up at him. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

Jonny smiled. “Deal.”

***

The first couple of games were nerve-wracking. Jonny was paranoid at first about losing his breath and not being able to get it back, but playoff hockey demanded all of his focus. Once he got into his rhythm, he almost forgot about what was happening with his lungs until they demanded his attention – or Patrick did, by shoving his inhaler in his face during an intermission. 

“I’m –”

“You’re not fine, you’re wheezing,” Patrick snapped, and only then did Jonny realize it was true. “Take the damn inhaler.”

Jonny looked around to see if anyone was watching, but Patrick was standing so he was blocked from view by most of the guys. He grabbed the inhaler and sucked it down, hating the brief shaky feeling. But it passed, and suddenly, he could breathe again. “Thanks.”

“Any time,” Patrick said, clapping him on the shoulder. 

They made it past the Blues in six games, then went on to face the Wild. Jonny had a good feeling about this year. Going out in the first round two years in a row had sucked majorly, but a fourth Cup was totally possible. Haters gonna hate, as Patrick always said. Shake it off. 

_Ugh_. Jonny knew he and Patrick had been spending too much time together when he started quoting Taylor Swift lyrics to himself. 

The Wild were seeded higher than them, so the first game was in Minneapolis. They’d also had a weirdly warm winter and an even wetter spring than Chicago. It took about two hours from the moment Jonny stepped off the plane for whatever was in the air to totally overwhelm his Zyrtec regimen. 

He and Patrick went out that night to a steakhouse that had become their good luck charm the last couple of postseasons they’d faced Minnesota. Jonny kept having to stop eating and sneeze into a tissue. His eyes were watering, and his chest kind of ached. He forced himself to eat, even though he couldn’t taste anything. Patrick looked worried, but he didn’t ask if Jonny was all right. They both knew what the answer would be. 

He took a double dose of Zyrtec that night and hit his Flonase and his Flovent, and he woke up the next morning feeling marginally better. Morning skate was...okay. Jonny could feel that he didn’t have the same energy he normally did. His throat hurt, and so did his ears. But he wasn’t going to sit the game out, so he gritted his teeth and played through. 

Patrick sat next to him on the bus on the way back to the hotel for pre-game nap. “I’m not going to suggest you sit it out,” he said, when Jonny glared at him preemptively. “But you’ve got your rescue inhaler on you, don’t you?” 

Jonny grimaced. “Yes. I’m not stupid.”

“Well, _that’s_ up for debate,” Patrick said, and ducked when Jonny threw a used tissue at his head.

Jonny had a hard time falling asleep for his nap because he couldn’t quite get comfortable. Tossing and turning ate up nearly half of his ninety minutes, but he finally managed to doze off for a bit. He woke bleary and shuffled into the shower for a few minutes, just to try and wake up. The steam helped a little, too, clearing his sinuses until his ears, nose, and throat felt a little less stuffy. 

This was going to be fun, he could already tell. 

It had been three years now since the Hawks had faced the Wild in the playoffs, but neither the players nor the fans had forgotten what it’d felt like to get swept in 2015. They came at the Hawks with everything they had, and Jonny felt like he spent his first three shifts just trying to keep his head above water. On the bench, he struggled to get his breath back, but it wasn’t bad enough for him to go for his rescue inhaler. He hated the shaky feeling it gave him, and he didn’t want the cameras to pick up him using it. 

Somehow, he got through it. He even managed an assist on Patrick’s powerplay goal in the last five minutes of the period, which put them up 1-0. 

He stumbled on his way to the locker room. Patrick, right behind him, grabbed his arm and held him up. Jonny’s legs were suddenly shaky and his head was spinning. “Whoa,” he mumbled, stumbling again. 

“Fuck,” Patrick said. “Seabs! Get Nikki! And Terry!”

“What’s wrong with him?” Jonny heard someone demand. 

“He can’t fucking breathe. Jonny, where’s your damn inhaler?”

“My bag,” Jonny managed. 

“Get his bag,” Patrick told someone. 

“What’s – Patrick – don’t,” Jonny said, still kind of disoriented. He was in the locker room now, somehow. Patrick shoved him back so he sat down in his stall. Jonny leaned forward, bracing himself with his elbows.

He blinked and Nikki was crouched in front of him, his inhaler in her hand. She shook it and held it up. “Come on, Jon. One puff.” 

Jonny took a puff, trying to hold his breath for the recommended five seconds. It was hard when his chest already felt so fucking tight. 

“Good,” Nikki said, and he breathed out. “Now another.” He repeated it, and his chest felt less tight. “One more.” He took one last puff and felt his pulse start to slow.

“Okay?” Nikki asked him. 

Jonny nodded. He looked up and realized that everyone on the team was staring at him, frozen and bug-eyed. “Um.”

“What the actual fuck,” Duncs said. “You have asthma?”

“Seasonal asthma,” Jonny corrected. 

“Whatever. And none of us knew?”

“Patrick knew,” Jonny said. “And Q and Nikki and Terry – the people who needed to know –”

“Yeah, fuck that, Jon,” Seabs said. “We’re your goddamn team, and if Kaner hadn’t been standing right there, none of us would’ve known what to do. That’s bullshit.”

Jonny opened his mouth to argue, but then he looked at Patrick and the words died on his lips. “I’m okay now,” he said instead. 

Q seemed to decide that was the right moment to intervene. “Jonny, Dr. Terry wants to have a look at you. Can you stand?”

“Yeah, of course,” Jonny said, feeling his ears turning red. Everyone was still looking at him. Jesus Christ, this was the _opposite_ of what he’d wanted.

Patrick followed him into the examination room. Dr. Terry looked like he was about to object, but Jonny just said, “He can stay,” and hopped up on the table. Dr. Terry nodded. 

“How are you doing now, Jon?” Dr. Terry asked, as he helped Jonny get his pads off. 

“Okay. My allergies have been really bad since I got off the plane.”

“And the reason you didn’t mention this was...?”

“I didn’t think there was anything you could do that you weren’t already doing?” Jonny tried. 

“Mmm,” Dr. Terry said. He didn’t say anything else. Jonny watched Patrick, who was staring at Jonny like he might keel over and die at any moment, while he submitted to an examination. Dr. Terry listened to Jonny’s chest for a long time, eyes distant and mouth in a serious line. 

Patrick had to go before the exam was done. It made Jonny twitch to miss the start of the period, but he had the feeling he might not be going to be going back out there tonight anyway. And that stung something fierce. And not only did it sting, it made him _angry_. His stupid body, which could do so many things other people’s couldn’t, couldn’t handle the simplest damn things without completely melting down. 

“Okay,” Dr. Terry finally said, leaning away. 

“How bad?” Jonny asked. He meant for it to come out a little joking, but it came out bitter instead.

“Not great, Jon. We need to make some adjustments to your asthma protocol if you’re going to play this series.”

“I have to play,” Jonny said, sitting up in his indignation. “You can’t bench me, I’ll do whatever you want, but I can’t sit out –”

Dr. Terry held his hand up. “Jon. Stop. Listen to me. You cannot play through this. I’m not going to send you out there if you can’t breathe. I won’t do it. I’d be a bad doctor if I did.”

Jonny remembered the panic in Patrick’s voice as he'd demanded that someone bring him Jonny’s bag. He snapped his mouth shut on any further arguments. 

“Okay,” he finally said. “Okay. That's...yeah, okay, I get it. So...what then?”

“First of all, you’re not going back out there tonight.” 

Jonny’s head came up. “What? It’s a playoff game. I’m breathing fine now.”

“Yes, but you weren’t less than ten minutes ago, and we haven’t addressed the actual underlying problem. You could have a much more severe attack if I send you back out there now.” 

“What if it goes to OT?” Jonny demanded. “You can’t keep me benched if we go to OT.”

“I can and will. Now, starting tonight, we’re going to make some adjustments. The Flovent isn't working, so we’ll try something else. I’ll add an oral bronchodilator, too, at least temporarily. And then we’ll wait to see how you feel in practice.”

Jonny wanted to argue. He couldn’t believe this was keeping him out of a playoff game. But he had the feeling that arguing wasn’t going to do anything for his case. 

He took a deep, careful breath, and said, “I can't miss any more games. If I can't play, I'm not worth my contract. I've played when I was feeling pretty bad.”

“This isn't like the stomach stuff.” Dr. Terry sat back. “Look, Jon. I've been in sports medicine a long time. I get it. This is what you were built to do, and you love it, and it's my job to get you back out there. But you're a human being before you're a hockey player. Promise me you'll be honest with me about how you're feeling.”

Jonny nodded. “I promise. Thanks,” he added. Dr. Terry clapped him on the shoulder.

Jonny watched the rest of the period from the exam room on a tablet one of the assistant coaches brought him. By the end of the period, the Hawks had scored again – a powerplay goal by Sharpy on a pass from Patrick – but the Wild had answered with a goal of their own. The Hawks were still up by a goal, but it felt like the kind of lead that could vanish fast. It made Jonny itch not to be out there.

They blew the lead, because of course they did, but they clawed their way back by the end of regulation to win by a goal. Jonny was spared having to watch OT from the locker room, thank God. 

His breathing was normal by the end of the game, but he avoided going back into the locker room until they’d kicked the press out. They were calling it an upper body injury, but Jonny didn’t want to have to come up with a story, and obviously telling the truth was out. 

“Why not?” Patrick asked when Jonny said as much on the bus ride back to the hotel. “It’s not like there’s a weak area other players could target. You could tell them the truth.”

“No,” Jonny said flatly. “I don’t want anyone to know about this.”

“Why not?” Patrick asked. “Are you – Jon, are you _embarrassed_ by this?”

“No.”

“Yes, you are. That is fucking stupid, Jonny.”

“Hey –”

“No, it is _fucking stupid_. It’s not a personal failure, you know. It’s just a medical condition.”

“Just like the gluten allergy,” Jonny muttered, “just like the dairy and the insomnia. Everyone knows about those, do they have to know about this, too? Anyway, this is all just ridiculous. Everyone is acting like I was dying.”

“Yeah, well, you kind of sounded like a dying fish.”

Jonny pulled a face. “Thanks.”

“But Dr. Terry got you sorted out?”

“I hope so,” Jonny said. “New inhaler, and now I’m on pills, too. We’re just going to keep an eye on it for the next couple of days, hopefully it’ll work itself out.”

Patrick nodded, looking somewhat mollified. But he reached for Jonny’s hand and held it the rest of the way to the hotel. It was an uncharacteristically public display of affection, and that, more than anything, told Jonny just how shaken up Patrick was. 

***

The bronchodilator worked better than Jonny could have hoped. By the second game, Jonny was breathing a lot easier. Q kept his minutes low for the first couple of periods, but when they went into the third down by a goal, the gloves came off. Literally: Seabs dropped gloves with one of the Wild’s D-men and they ended up playing four-on-four for two minutes. Jonny ended up out there with Patrick, Duncs, and Kempny, and it was the first time since they'd gotten to Minnesota that he felt normal. 

He scored fifteen seconds into his shift – a beauty of a goal, the stuff of highlight reels. There had been a bunch of shit online after the last two postseasons, about how he just didn't have it anymore; he hadn't even looked to see what people were saying after he left the first game with no explanation. But that ought to shut at least a few of them up. 

And, well, scoring with Patrick was always a little sweeter than scoring with anyone else.

“Oh captain, my captain,” Patrick said as they crashed into each other afterward. “That was totally blowjob worthy.”

“Gross,” Saader said, even as he slung an arm around Jonny’s shoulders. “But not wrong,” he added. Jonny laughed in relief.

They ploughed through the Wild in five. Jonny’s new regimen worked every step of the way. He barely coughed.

“You sound good,” Patrick told him, on a rare night in the same bed. They had a few days off while they waited for the Sharks and Oilers to figure their shit out. “No wheezing.”

“I feel good,” Jonny said, drawing a deep breath through his nose for emphasis. 

It took seven games, but the Oilers eventually triumphed over the Sharks. Jonny had secretly been hoping to face the Sharks in the conference final – not because they were necessarily a weaker opponent, but because he knew what the narrative would be if the Hawks ended up facing the Oilers. The Oilers were young. They were hungry for their first Cup after a decades-long drought. They were the Hawks in 2010. And the Hawks, while they clearly had their legs under them this year, were aging and tired – a dynasty begging to be toppled. 

_Ugh_. Fuck that noise. 

At least the extra time between series meant that Jonny wasn’t going into the conference final _feeling_ like an old man. The whole team had had a few days to rest up and try to put a little weight back on; he and Patrick had even managed to have sex that wasn’t totally perfunctory. Overall, Jonny ended the break feeling as good as he possibly could at this point in the postseason. 

Which might have been why, the day before game one in Chicago, he forgot to take his bronchodilator.

In his defense, there was a lot going on. They’d had strategy meetings all day and then team bonding over Mario Kart in one of the hotel common rooms, and by the time Jonny tumbled into bed he just wasn’t thinking about it at all. He’d been breathing fine for days, and spring had progressed to the point where he thought he might be able to ease off all the medications – though obviously he wasn’t going to be making that decision without consulting Dr. Terry. 

Jonny hadn’t realized just what a difference it was making until he woke up the morning of the game with a heaviness in his chest that he hadn’t had in days and definitely hadn’t missed. He took an extra puff off his inhaler that morning and – because he wasn’t a total idiot – said something to Dr. Terry before practice. 

He might’ve left out the part about forgetting to take his meds. Mostly because he really didn’t want Patrick to find out. 

Dr. Terry listened to his chest for a while. Jonny tried to breathe normally and not fidget. 

“You’re sounding a little rough, Jon, I’m not gonna lie,” Dr. Terry said at last, pulling the stethoscope away. “Nothing like you did during that game in Minnesota, and not even as bad as you did when you came to me during the first series, but I can hear some crackling to be sure.”

Jonny grimaced. “I have to play, doc. It’s the conference final.”

Dr. Terry sighed. “I want you to take it easy at practice and see how you feel. Let’s check in afterward. Make sure your rescue inhaler is easily accessible, just in case.”

Jonny did exactly as he was told, hanging back during some of the more rigorous drills and playing shorter shifts during the special teams scrimmage. Patrick noticed, of course, but there wasn’t any time for him to say something during practice, and by the end Jonny felt comfortable telling him he was fine. “Felt a little off this morning,” he said, which wasn’t a _lie_ , per se, “so the doc told me take it easy. But I’m okay now.”

Dr. Terry agreed with him and cleared him to play. Jonny ignored Patrick’s worried glances on the bus on the way back to the hotel for their pre-game naps. It was the fucking conference final. The press was already talking about him like he needed a walker to get from the bus to the rink. There was no way he was sitting this one out. 

He slept solidly and woke up feeling more than ready for whatever the Oilers might dish out. He had a good feeling about this. They’d played the Oilers three times during the regular season and won twice. The Oilers were playing well, but they’d played two series that’d gone to seven games. They were tired and sore. The Hawks could do this. 

Halfway through the first game, Jonny had to admit that he’d been overly confident. If the Oilers were tired, they weren’t playing like it.

“They’re making us look old and slow out there,” Patrick said around his mouthguard. 

Jonny was trying to get his breath back between shifts and not having a hell of a lot of luck. He grimaced and nodded. “Kids these days,” he managed, and coughed. And coughed. And coughed again. 

“Shit, you okay?” Patrick asked. “Where the hell’s your inhaler?”

“I’m fine, I don’t need it.” 

“Bullshit.”

“I’m not using it on the bench,” Jonny said, even as he pressed his hand to his breastbone. He tried to force all the air out of his lungs so he could draw a full breath on the next inhale. “No fucking way.”

“Dude, you’re being –”

“KANER!” Q shouted, saving Jonny from having to listen to whatever lecture Patrick had queued up. Patrick glared at him as he went over the boards. 

One of the Oilers’ D-men took a slashing penalty on Anisimov about thirty seconds later, and Jonny headed out for the powerplay. Patrick, circling around to take his position for the faceoff, was still glaring at him. Jonny ignored him. He was fucking fine. 

It was the hardest shift of Jonny’s life. He felt like he was fighting just to keep his head above water, let alone produce anything. He was already breathing hard and kind of dizzy when he got checked into the boards by Nugent-Hopkins. 

He went down hard, and it took a few seconds for him to even think about getting up. It wasn’t an illegal check, it wasn’t even that bad, but his pulse was suddenly roaring in his ears. 

The ref’s whistle blew. Patrick got to him first. “Jonny, hey, look at me,” he said, and Jonny’s eyes found his. 

“I’m okay,” he said and pushed himself up, trying to get to his feet. 

Nikki was suddenly there, shoving his inhaler in his face. Jonny jerked his head away from it. “Not on the ice,” he gasped, aware of how many people were watching this. 

“Don’t be stupid about this,” Nikki said, shaking the inhaler. 

“Jon, come on,” Patrick said, a thread of desperation in his voice.

Jonny gave up and let Nikki shove the inhaler in his mouth. He took one puff, held it, and felt his head start to clear, like magic. A second puff, and the invisible bands around his chest loosened. A third puff, and he could actually get to his feet. Patrick grabbed his arm; Nikki had his other side, but Jonny didn’t actually need either of them to stay up. 

The crowd cheered him off the ice. Jonny kept his head down until he made it to the tunnel. Dr. Terry was waiting for him there, Q just behind him. Dr. Terry handed him a towel and herded him toward the dressing room. 

“I should have used the rescue inhaler ten minutes ago,” Jonny said, even as Dr. Terry whipped out the dreaded stethoscope. “I didn’t want to use it on the bench, because I didn’t want the cameras to pick it up.” He grimaced. “Obviously that’s a moot point now. But I’m feeling a lot better.”

Dr. Terry and Q both looked at him without speaking. Jonny shifted uncomfortably. “I know it was stupid,” he finally ventured. 

“Incredibly stupid,” Dr. Terry said. “And dangerous. You can’t refuse to take your rescue inhaler on the bench because you don’t want people to see you use it. You can’t play through this, Jon, do you understand me? You don’t breathe, you don’t _live_.”

Jonny swallowed. “I know.”

“I feel like a jackass lecturing you about hockey when this could have literally killed you,” Q said, “but do I need to remind you that this is the goddamn conference final? And you put yourself at risk to, what, save face?”

Jonny had nothing to say to that. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. 

Q shook his head. Jonny was pretty sure the last time he’d seen him this pissed was after game four against the Preds the year before. “You’re lucky I don’t bench you for the rest of this game on principle. I should. But it’s the conference final and we need you, so I’m going to listen to Dr. Terry’s medical advice, and _so are you_.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Q stared at him for a few more seconds, spun on his heel, and left without another word. Jonny looked at Dr. Terry. “So? What is your medical advice?”

Dr. Terry sighed. “I don’t know yet. You’ll sit out the rest of this period. I’ll listen to your chest at intermission and we’ll re-evaluate.”

Jonny grimaced. “There might not be any point. I think Patrick is going to murder me at intermission.”

Dr. Terry was unsympathetic. Nikki was even less sympathetic, and she had even more to say about how stupid Jonny had been. Jonny sat and listened as meekly as he could, nodding in all the right places. He’d really hoped avoiding anyone finding out about this. In retrospect, that was probably a pipe dream, and he might’ve been able to keep playing if he’d just used the inhaler when he’d started feeling bad. 

Nikki finally ran out of steam. She handed him a tablet to watch the rest of the period on and left him alone. 

Jonny wasn’t alone for more than three minutes, before one of the Hawks’ PR associates, Colette, knocked and stuck her head in. “Hi, Jon. Mind if I come in?”

Jonny shook his head. “Be my guest.”

“How’re you doing?” she asked, flipping one of the chairs around to straddle backward. Jonny liked her; she took no bullshit from anyone, including Patrick, and she knew how to spin a narrative while leaving them with some dignity. “Better?”

“Yeah.” Jonny rubbed his chest. “Thanks. So, um. How obvious was it that I was using an inhaler out there?”

“Pretty obvious. I don’t know that we could conceivably pass it off as something other than what it was. Which of course doesn’t mean you’re under any obligation to talk about it.”

“Thanks,” Jonny said, because he did appreciate the reminder. “What do you recommend?”

She shrugged. “It’s really up to you. I’m not going to tell you that you have to talk about a medical condition with the press.”

“But?” Jonny prompted.

“ _But_ ,” she said slowly, “I think the best way to make this short and – well, not painless, but at least less painful – is to just admit that it was what it looked like. At least then _Puck Daddy_ and _Deadspin_ will each write one article instead of five.”

Jonny supposed she had a point. “Can I think about it? I’ll let you know by the end of second intermission.”

“Sure.” Colette stood up. “Glad you’re feeling better, Jon.”

“Thanks.”

She left. Jonny glanced down at the tablet. There were three minutes to go in the period, and the game was tied up 1-1. If he had to sit this out because of his fucking lungs, he thought, he was never going to hear the end of it. He’d never let _himself_ hear the end of it. 

And it’d be his fault, he realized. Not for having asthma but for being a stubborn asshole about it. For trying to play through the pain like he always had with everything else. When he’d puked before just about every game for a year and a half as a rookie, when he hadn’t slept for two or three nights, when he was beat up and aching in a million places – that was what he did. He played through. But this time, his body had come up with something that he couldn’t play through. And instead of acknowledging that, he’d decided to try and conquer it. 

The buzzer went off, out in the arena, and a half second later it went off on the tablet, too. Jonny straightened, listening to the team flooding into the locker room, and went tense waiting for Patrick to storm into the exam room and yell at him. 

He was not at all prepared for Patrick to storm into the exam room and kiss him. 

Patrick was still in his helmet, but he ripped it off in one harsh move. He grabbed Jonny by the front of his uniform and kissed him. Jonny flailed for a few seconds, too shocked to be graceful. He and Patrick rarely indulged in PDA in front of the team and never at the rink. But Patrick didn’t let up and after a second or two, Jonny settled his hands on Patrick’s upper arms, squeezing lightly through the padding. 

Patrick pulled away and rested his forehead against Jonny’s. “I am really fucking pissed at you.”

“I know.”

“You scared the hell out of me.”

“I know.”

Patrick pulled away to look at him. He was sweaty and disgusting, and his playoff beard was its usual patchy mess, but his blue eyes were incredibly bright. “I love you, but this is one of those times when I also hate you. You are so insanely, dangerously stubborn, I can’t even.”

Jonny nodded, looking down. “I know. I’m sorry. I can’t do much about the stubbornness, it’s kind of ingrained, but I’m trying to cut back on the dangerous part. I’m sorry I scared you so badly. It won’t happen again.”

Patrick squeezed the back of Jonny’s neck. “No offense, Jon, but you’ve been dumb as shit about this. Why should I believe you?”

Jonny swallowed. “I’ve been trying to hide the asthma. I’m not anymore. Everyone saw me with the inhaler, so there’s no point. And I was just talking to Colette about – about talking about it in the postgame presser.”

Patrick’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Jonny nodded. “You were right. I was embarrassed by it. And I’m pissed, because my body just won’t do what I want it to sometimes. But I can’t just will this away, and I don’t think I should lie about it. So.”

Patrick pressed their foreheads together. “If you put me through this again, I will strangle you with my bare hands. Just so we’re clear.”

“Very clear.” 

“Good.” He straightened up. “You need anything?”

Jonny shook his head. “Just for us to win this game. It’ll be a lot easier for me to do this if we’ve just won.”

Patrick nodded. “Got it. Winning – check.” 

Dr. Terry cleared him to play the last period, thank God. Jonny still wasn’t sure Q was actually going to send him out, and he didn’t at first. He let Jonny fidget on the bench for the first five minutes and glared at him any time Jonny dared to catch his eye. But then the Oilers scored, putting them up by one, and Jonny went over the boards. 

He was cautious at first, but his breathing stayed steady. He didn’t score, but he backchecked the shit out of some twelve-year-old rookie and managed to get the puck to Saader, who sent it up the ice to Schmaltzy, who took the shot. It didn’t go in, but it’d been a good, solid chance, and Jonny headed back to the bench feeling as though he’d contributed. 

But it was Patrick who scored three minutes later to even up the game, and it was Patrick who scored _again_ with ninety seconds left to give the Hawks the lead. 

They still had it when the buzzer went off. Jonny sagged in his seat and accepted Duncs’s fistbump. 

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Patrick said from behind him as they filed back into the dressing room. 

“I know I don’t,” Jonny said with a shrug, “but the cat’s out of the bag. No point in pretending otherwise.” He gritted his teeth. “And it’ll hold me accountable to _not_ being dumb as shit about it anymore.”

“Okay, then. If you’re sure.” Patrick’s hand landed on Jonny’s shoulder and squeezed. 

Jonny was unsurprised when most of the press bee-lined for him, passing by even Patrick, who’d scored the game-winner. He’d talked with Colette at the second intermission and had a few talking points in his head already. But once the microphones were actually shoved in his face, he found himself unaccountably nervous.

He stalled for a second or two, searching for a familiar, reasonably friendly face to call on. “Yeah, uh, Laz?” 

“Jon, I’m sure everyone is wondering what happened out there during the first period,” Laz said. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Jonny said, relaxing minutely. He’d known Laz would be a human being about this. “It was pretty much exactly what it looked like – I had an asthma attack. One of the trainers had to bring me my rescue inhaler.”

Laz’s eyebrows shot up. Jonny wasn’t looking around, but he was pretty sure _everyone’s_ eyebrows shot up. “Is that...new?” Laz asked. 

Jonny almost laughed. “Well, the allergies that led to it aren’t. But the asthma itself, yeah. I’m hardly the only person suffering from it right now, too. Anyone who follows me on Twitter knows what I think about climate change and its effect on the environment and our health. Without standing on my soapbox too much, the warm winter has caused a really high pollen count. I’ve been working with the team physician all playoffs trying to get it under control.”

“And tonight?”

Jonny shrugged. “I didn’t use my rescue inhaler when I should have. Which should be a lesson to any other athletes with asthma,” he added wryly. “If I had, I probably wouldn’t have had an asthma attack in the middle of my shift.”

“And yet you went back out and played,” someone else – someone Jonny didn’t recognize, probably one of the staff reporters NBC sent for the conference final – broke in. 

“That’s playoff hockey,” Jonny said with a grin, causing a round of chuckles. “No, but in all seriousness – my rescue inhaler worked great, and Dr. Terry felt comfortable sending me back out there. I’m fine, and I have every intention of playing the rest of this series and hopefully the next one, too. But you can bet I’m going to be a lot more careful from now on.” He took a deep breath. “Now, anyone want to talk about the powerplay? Or maybe you’d all rather bug Kaner about his game winner?”

There were a few seconds of silence. Then Tracey said, “So what do you think the team needs to do on the powerplay to make it more effective?”

“We need to win more faceoffs,” Jonny said, relaxing. “I guess it’s no secret that the powerplay hasn’t been working that well for us this year, and the Oilers’ PK is pretty tight. We need to get our faceoff percentage up, start winning more of those draws. I think if we do that, we’ll start seeing more scoring chances during powerplays.”

“That was great,” Colette said to him afterward, just before he boarded the bus back to the hotel. “Short, honest, to the point, and then you got them back to talking about hockey. Good job.”

“Thanks,” Jonny said. “It wasn’t that bad, really. You’ll send me some clips?”

“In the morning,” she said. “As long as you promise me that you won’t –”

“– read the comments,” he finished. “I promise.”

“Good. Get some rest.”

Jonny headed for the bus. Nikki, passing him from the other direction, gave him two thumbs up and a big smile. 

He was the last one on the bus. Patrick was holding the seat next to him for him. Jonny slid in and breathed a sigh of relief, going boneless and sliding down until his head rested on Patrick’s shoulder. “Good?” he said. 

“Yeah, babe,” Patrick said, pressing his cheek briefly to the top of Jonny’s head. “Good.”

***

The conference final stretched to seven hard-fought games. Jonny got a few more questions about his asthma, but it was a great series – one of the best he thought he’d ever played in – and the hockey was exciting enough that most people didn’t seem to feel the need to write dumbass pieces about Jonny’s health. 

_Most_ people was not the same as _all_ people, of course. Jonny was sure that someone, somewhere, had come up with a list of reasons why this meant the Hawks should trade him. But those pieces weren’t in the clips Colette sent him every morning, and Jonny didn’t go looking for them. 

All in all, that was nothing more than he’d come to expect after something like this. What he hadn’t expected were the kids. Parents would comment on his Instagram and tweet at him with pictures their kids had drawn him. That in itself wasn’t new, but suddenly it was almost entirely parents of kids with asthma who were doing it. Pictures of Jonny scoring goals with his inhaler in hand, or of the kids scoring goals, or of themselves with Jonny, both of them with matching poorly-drawn inhalers. 

“These are adorable,” Patrick said, thumbing through a bunch of them on his phone. He was sitting on the bed in his game day suit, waiting for Jonny to finish dressing before game seven. “Are the Hawks tweeting any from the main account?”

“Yeah, Collette chose a few.”

Patrick looked up. Jonny finished knotting his tie and looked in the mirror to try and get his hair in some semblance of order. Patrick was watching him in his reflection, he noticed after a few moments. “What?” he said. 

“Nothing,” Patrick said. “Just...you okay with all the attention? I know you didn’t want it.”

Jonny shrugged. “Hard to argue with this kind of attention, I guess. I mean, I’d still prefer not to have to deal with it, but if I’m gonna have to anyway – it’s not the worst thing in the world.” He shrugged into his suit jacket. “I was talking to Colette about getting more involved with some of the clean air campaigns. Chicago’s one of the cities that signed on to the Paris agreement after Trump pulled out, and I’d like to start doing more. PSA’s, fundraising appearances, that kind of thing. Maybe write a pretty big check.”

“Never let it be said that Jonathan Toews does anything by halves.”

Jonny took his regular inhaler out and shook it, then took a puff. He held it for a few seconds, let it out, and waited for the shaky feeling to pass. Then he sighed. “I just. I just think this has to be good for something.”

Patrick stood up and put his hand on Jonny’s shoulder, turning him around to face him. He straightened Jonny’s tie, then held up his phone. “Look at these pictures,” he said, swiping through a bunch that he’d apparently saved. “Look at all these kids who know that Jonathan Toews is like them. It’s already been good for something.”

“Yeah,” Jonny said quietly. “I know. But it could be good for more.”

“And you’ll make sure that it is. _After_ we win our fourth cup. So come on.” Patrick pulled him in and kissed him. “Let’s win us a fucking hockey game.”

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Now with beautiful art by essouffle!


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